Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. She pulled the trigger. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. ‘Certainly this is true,’ she managed. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. He says only that he must tie up all the loose ends. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn.
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